


Abide With Me

by wavewright62



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Brass Band, Gen, Trollification, Year 0 (Stand Still Stay Silent)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24207010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wavewright62/pseuds/wavewright62
Summary: “Where is death's sting?Where, grave, thy victory?I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.”Dedicated to the many musicians and players from all genres who have participated in the explosion of videos from recordings made in their homes during the Covid-19 pandemic quarantine and lockdown.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 18
Collections: Synchronised Screaming





	Abide With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Although unnamed in the work, this takes place in Norway, at the home of the reknowned Eikanger-Bjørsvik brass band, many-times European Champions and one of the finest in the world. At least, in Year 0 they were.

_Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,_ he sang to himself as he closed the door, shutting out the biting wind. It was quiet in the band room, dark in the fading light through the high windows. The lingering smell of valve oil hung in the still air. It had always been a place of calm for him, even when it was at its most unquiet, with the band pounding away at a fortissimo passage.

 _The darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide._ The empty chairs and music stands were still arrayed in formation around the director’s stand, over worn spots in the carpet where the chairs had scraped for decades. A cup mute lay forgotten next to a stand in the back cornet row. A thin layer of dust clung to the trophy cabinet but couldn’t diminish the gleam of the cups and plaques within, testament to the band’s recent successes. The band’s name was engraved so many times on the European Championship trophy in recent years.

There were framed pieces on the walls – more certificates from competitions gone by, framed newspaper articles, and formal photos of the band through the years. _There’s my first band picture,_ he thought, _1977\. I was so proud to be part of this band, even at the lowest seat in the cornet section. Oh, there’s old Mat. I went to his funeral. And Erik, too._ So many of the older gentlemen who had helped him along in those early days, now of course all gone. He sighed as he scanned the newer photos, knowing what he would see.

The young ones were gone too. They were able to get a band together to play for the first one or two funerals, before they all took the extreme contagion seriously. Before everybody went into lockdown. He turned away from the bright young faces and shined instruments.

Opening the door to the instrument room, he could smell mould. The current players all had their instruments at home with them. _Well, at least I can clean some of these out and get them ready to store for a while,_ he thought, _at least until we start up again._  
  
In the early days of the pandemic, they had recorded videos by having each member play their part at home. It was a way to and connect after everyone was isolating at home. It had been an excellent way to keep up their spirits, and their embouchures. All the bands were doing it; some of the top bands were putting out one every week, others only occasionally.

One had come out on Armistice Day in November, with bandsmen from all over the globe contributing their part for ‘Abide With Me’. He’d shared the video on his social media, proud of his tiny contribution. There hadn’t been a new video in quite some time. The videos were short-lived, for only the first several weeks, as confidence remained high for a cure or vaccine for the Rash. After that, there had been fewer and fewer players, and the supply of electricity and internet started faltering.

He chose a tenor horn case to take into the small kitchen. His own part in the old hymn tune continued playing in his head. _Swift to its close ebb’s out life’s little day, something, something, something pass away. Aahh, I should Google the lyrics._ He ran the water for the instrument wash; it was cold, but at least it was still running here. There wasn’t a Google anymore, he reminded himself. It occurred to him that the lyrics would no doubt be printed in one of the old programmes from commemorations past strewn around the music library.

To distract himself, he turned on the small radio in the kitchen, pleased that it still had live batteries and he could get reception, but turned off the radio after a few songs. _Feh, I must be getting old. All this modern music sounds the same, just tuneless screaming and yelling. Moan, moan, moan._ Aloud into the darkness, he chided the formless shadows, “who am I kidding? We did our share of yelling and moaning.” Bending to his work, the hymn came back into his head unbidden.

 _Change and decay in all around I see,_ he sang to himself as he unscrewed the valves and removed them from their pistons. He carefully pulled out the various slides around the horn, laying each in the bath. One gave him some trouble, and he’d managed to bend it slightly before it finally popped out. He frowned at it, squinting at it as he tried to catch some light to assess the damage, before laying it in the water to soak.

He went back into the instrument room to find cleaners and lubricants, finding only a small tub of slide grease. With a sigh he realised he hadn’t thought to bring his supply of Brasso with him, or much of anything else for that matter. He’d felt compelled to visit the bandroom and check on it since he was quite close by, to make sure it was locked down tight, but hadn’t really given thought to how long he’d stay.

A few of the marching uniforms hung there, brought out from the back storage closet for mending. The buttons shone dully in the weak twilight. _I should cover those windows,_ he thought, _too bright in here. Must protect the uniforms from fading._

The bass note that bridged the verses rung through his head. He attempted to give it voice, but fell into wheezing, his voice cracking and unnaturally loud in the stillness.

Back in the kitchen, he deftly slid fingers into the slides, dislodging small clots of accumulated gunge. It was good to get into all the nooks and crannies of the instrument, even without the assistance of the special brush he’d also left behind at his house. With both hands occupied with the horn as he worked, he fished around in the bottom linen drawer for a fresh tea towel, spreading it out on the counter next to the sink. _Very handy, that,_ he mused as he laid the slides onto the towel and pulled down some mugs to use for scooping water through the body of the instrument. _Must pay special attention to the lead pipe, make sure there’s no Rash-infested crud left in there, oh nooo._ He ignored the itching at various points on his body, intent on winnowing out every bit of corruption from the instrument.

He’d cleaned and lubricated the tenor horn, a baritone, and three cornets in the gathering dark before surveying the instrument room again. He mused that perhaps he’d feel sore in the morning, but he felt satisfied at the job well done. _Look at that. I can still be useful._ He flexed itchy shoulders. _Don’t feel all that tired, even. Maybe just do mouthpieces for awhile, while I’m here, while I still have time. Then maybe I’ll have a rest._

He shuddered. _All this messing with the cold water is making me a bit chilly._ He eyed the jacket of the marching uniform hanging up, _I’ll just take the chill off, put it right back, eh._ He looked at the size tags before taking one off the hanger. _Fits funny,_ he struggled with the jacket, _must have lost some weight or something in lockdown._ Arms extended well past the cuffs. _Or something._ He left the jacket unbuttoned, _Who knows when we will wear them again?_

His glance rose to the biggest cases in their cubbyholes. “Naah, g’wan, you know you want to,” he chuckled aloud, then frowned at how thin his voice sounded. Two arms to take the bass down, two arms to hold it steady from tipping as he rolled the case to the kitchen. _Perfect,_ he thought as he reached fingers into the long slides, _just the thing for really getting in there. Oh, you’ll be clean now, yes you will._

Admiring his handiwork, he sang aloud, “Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory?” The bass amplified his thin voice in a very pleasant way. “I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.” He tried voicing the bass note between the verses again, delighted with the resonance. _A touch flat,_ he tried pulling the slide in, _as always._

He sang the last lines again, listening to them echo in the dark.

“Where is death's sting?  
Where, grave, thy victory?  
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Remember, always clean out your instrument after an illness.
> 
> The recording I participated in: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=szjYUaF3nro


End file.
